Another Star Against The Darkness: A Jinn Story
by TheConduit
Summary: Laurel Mars is a 40ish witch who's seen it all. Literally. Her whole life. So when Father Westhoff & Gabriel darken her doorstep & tell her she's needed to thwart the evil Shayateen from hurtling the world into Hell, she's turned off ... then intrigued ... then fully on-board. Oh and did I mention that she's got the hots for Gabriel? Oh yeah. (Based on the 2014 movie, "Jinn.")
1. Chapter 1A: The Two Visitors

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_

 _ **If you have not yet seen the 2014 supernatural thriller, "Jinn" yet, please do so before reading this fanfic. Otherwise, you'll probably either be lost or get mad that I spoiled some key things for you, k? Thanks, and happy reading!**_

Chapter One : The Two Visitors

Gabriel and Father Westhoff stood at the apartment door.

The jinn smirked. "217," he said. "Figures."

The old priest looked puzzled. "What's so special about 217? Some supernatural significance that I'm unaware of?"

Gabriel shook his head. "Nah ... well, I mean unless you're into Stephen King books about haunted hotels out in Colorado."

Westhoff mouthed "ohh," and knocked three times.

"Cominnnnnng!" A light, airy voice sang melodiously from behind the door.

Westhoff's brow furrowed, and he looked quizically at Gabriel. "A girl?" he asked.

"A woman," Gabriel replied.

The door opened. A tall, 40-ish woman with long, dark-brown and bright-red hair stood before them. She was wearing jeans and a Harry Potter/Doctor WHO crossover t-shirt. Her arms were crossed, and she looked skeptically at the two. "To be most accurate, gentlemen ... a witch! Well ... Pagan, anyway. And to what do I owe the honor of a visit from the Vatican? And for that matter, uhm -" She squinted at Gabriel and held up her hand in front of his chest, palm facing front. She raised and lowered it as if she were feeling some kind of aura. "A jinn? Or, are you still going by _**HOLY ANGEL OF THE ANNUNCIATION**_ nowadays?" She put both hands in the air, wiggled her fingers, and gaped melodramatically.

Westhoff looked shocked, then smiled broadly. "I'm impressed."

The woman smiled back, never taking her eyes off of Gabriel. "Glad to meet you, Father Impressed. I'm Laurel Mars." She stepped back and gestured inside. "You fellas wanna come in?"

The priest entered, and Gabriel began to follow behind him. Laurel stepped forward quickly to block his way. "Now, now," she purred. "You know the rules. 'Speak friend, and enter.' Ante up, Mr. Jinn. Palm, or no entry!"

Gabriel sighed. "Oh, alright." He put out his hand. Laurel took it in hers, pouring water from a small vial she'd pulled out of her hip pocket into his palm. Absolutely nothing happened. Laurel smiled broadly and ushered Gabriel inside.

She shut the door and joined the two in the living room. "What's your poison? Coffee? Tea? Whiskey? _Drano_?"

"I think that water will be just fine, thank you very much," Westhoff offered. As Laurel headed to the kitchen to fetch the glasses, the two visitors took a seat on an oversized, overstuffed blue denim couch. Westhoff looked around at the myriad of plants, idols, pentacles, and stacks upon stacks of books. The priest leaned over to Gabriel and whispered, "Are you _absolutely certain_ she's the one we're looking for?"

Laurel called out from the kitchen, "Oh, I'm _definitely_ the one you're looking for, Father Paranoia. Although as I recall, the last time the world needed 'saving,' weren't there _**THREE**_ visitors, bearing gifts or something? Gold's fine with me. But as a witch, I've got frankincense coming out my ears. And as Monty Python said, 'Don't worry too much about the myrrh, alwight?'" She brought out two tall glasses of ice water and set them on a large wooden coffee table, crossing the living room to sit on an equally-oversized wooden rocking chair so large that she looked almost like a little girl. "So ... _please_ tell me I'm not going to have to get knocked up or something. I just had surgery a few months back and am a bit wombless at the moment. Although, come to think of it, that'd top that little Jewish teenager's miracle by a crap-ton, eh?"

The priest cleared his throat. "Uhm, no. We're not actually here to get you pregnant."

Laurel looked at Gabriel, with his close-cut ash brown hair, neatly trimmed goatee beard, and dark gray-blue eyes, and smirked wickedly. "More's the pity." Then suddenly she turned serious, her eyes glaring at Westhoff. "But really, Father, I'm getting a bit old to keep saving the world. Criminy, I've got _grandkidlets_ now! So what's so gosh-darned important that a priest needs to bring a jinn into my house and looks like he just swallowed a bug? Spill it, Padre."

Westhoff frowned. "I would think from the past few moments that _you_ should be able to tell _us_."

Laurel fidgeted in her seat and frowned back at him. "People are easy to read. Same with spirits for the most part. Angels and jinn glow for miles. Like a bunch of itty bitty Three Mile Islands walking around. But getting readouts on _**THE BIG WHOZIT AND/OR WHATZIT's**_ plans? Not so much. May as well be written in UNIX." Her face suddenly lit up, and she giggled when she realized she was speaking to someone who had chosen to remain celibate. "Oh my god, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to say UNIX to a priest!"

Westhoff shook his head. "I'm not a -"

"Anyway," Gabriel chimed in, saving Westhoff from an extremely uncomfortable conversation. "There's a problem with the Shayateen ..."

Laurel looked exasperated. "Seriously? _**AGAIN**_? Jeez, didn't you people fix everything, like, a year ago or something?"

"Fifteen months, actually. You know about that?" Westhoff asked, shocked.

"Well, _duuh_! The next-to-next-to-last surviving member of a family cursed by a 10,000 year old jinn over a hundred years ago with a multigenerational death sentence slays said jinn, and it's not exactly something you can keep away from the spiritual blogosphere! Oh by the way, how's the kid?"

"He's fine," Gabriel answered.

Laurel sighed. "Good. I hate it when kids are in trouble."

" _Anyway_ ," Westhoff said this time, "as Gabriel started to say, there's a problem with the Shayateen. Over the past 15 months, they've been gathering together, joining their forces and growing more powerful. If what we are hearing is correct, the joining together of the Shayateen's powers could potentially envelop the entire Earth, hurtling everyone into what could only be described as a kind of 'perpetual hell.' It would be 'hell on Earth,' only the Earth would not technically be in this dimension anymore."

Laurel furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, thinking. "So ... like Supernatural, plus Wishmaster, plus Star Trek: Voyager (natch, since I'm a feisty female who's a born leader), plus The Exorcist, plus Charmed, then?"

"Yes. Pretty much," Gabriel sighed in exasperation.

She thought a moment more, then announced, "I'm in. So … what do I have to do?"

"We'll get to that in a moment," Gabriel replied. "But first ... has anyone ever told you that you watch _entirely_ too much TV?"

Laurel winked at him. "Story of my life, fella."


	2. Chapter 1B: Whys of Laurel Mars

After Laurel went to pack a bag, Westhoff looked sternly at Gabriel. "I have to admit, the woman's got some definite psychic abilities. Still, she's a bit -"

"Odd?" Gabriel offered.

The priest crossed himself absentmindedly. "I know, I know ... it's a sin to judge others."

Gabriel chuckled. "Believe me, you haven't said anything that _**He**_ doesn't already know about." He paused. "And thinks a bit Himself." They both laughed then, and Gabriel patted his friend on the shoulder in reassurance. "There's a good reason for her mania, though ..."

Westhoff raised a brow inquisitively. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. It's her defense mechanism. You see, ever since she was a child, Laurel has heard - or rather, _experienced_ \- the thoughts and memories of others, running through her head. All the time. Her mother took her to doctors and specialists over the years, and a few of them misdiagnosed her abilities of course. But Laurel has always been tough. Tougher than most I've seen at any rate, and _highly_ intelligent. She figured out that television, movies and books allowed her to 'experience' humanity without having all those voices, emotions and words jumbling up her mind. A script, or really anything that's produced and then put on an artificial medium -"

"Like a book, or a screen?"

"Yes, exactly! They might start off as real emotions and thoughts, but the artificial medium dilutes it. Actors playing parts aren't actually saying or feeling what their characters are saying and feeling. They're reciting a bunch of words and imitating emotions that someone else wrote down _for_ them to say and do. That's the first hurdle. Then the artificial media wipes out the remaining emotional charge, leaving Laurel free to experience only her _own_ thoughts and emotions in response, as the rest of humanity does."

Westhoff frowned and shrugged. "And thoroughly takes for granted."

Gabriel nodded. "Yes, definitely. Still, I suppose Laurel is fortunate to have been born when artificial media experienced an electronic renaissance of sorts. Television, DVDs, the internet - especially YouTube and Netflix - they're all ways that she can see and hear other people without experiencing their minds flowing into hers. I suppose all of this has kept her sane - yes Father, _sane_! The ones like her who lived before the printing press had it hardest, I have to say. Laurel surpasses their sanity by leaps and bounds, even the way she is."

"Is that why she was holed up in that apartment then, all by herself? To keep out other people?"

Gabriel sighed. "Yes, I'm sorry to say. Laurel tried to live a 'normal' life, but as time went on and her powers grew, she realized that it was becoming more and more difficult to deal with the outside world. Even when she married and had kids, her unborn babies' unformed thoughts threatened to drown out her own. She did her best to be a good wife and mother, but eventually she locked out everybody close to her - emotionally - and they all left. Only after some time did her children begin to reach back out to her, to reconnect. She's only ever seen her grandchildren by Skype."

"Wow, that's sad."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"So, why did she agree to leave with us, Gabriel? If being around other people is psychically painful, why expose herself to all of us?"

Laurel stepped into the room from the corridor, where she'd been listening to their conversation. "Because, Padre ... I've got a personal policy against dying and being sent body and soul into an eternal hell dimension. OK?" She put down the bag she'd packed, and grinned at Gabriel. "Oh, and thanks, Gabe. I've always thought that biographies sounded better when narrated by a British person. Or at least someone speaking with a British accent. Which by the way, is pretty weird, come to think of it. If you were the one who told Mary about her little boychild in the oven, why do you look like a white guy with a rockin' bod and a kick-ass goatee? _That_ really would've looked a tad bit out of place in 1st Century Judea."

"Loaner body," he answered dryly.

She frowned at Gabriel. "Excuse me?"

Westhoff shifted in his seat and straightened. "You know, I've kind of wondered that _myself_ all these years. I just naturally assumed that you - as well as all Angels or Jinn, being spiritual entities - appeared in a form that the person you were speaking to would be familiar and comfortable with. That it was _my_ mind that made you appear to me the way that you do. But ultimately, at the very core, that your appearance was all simply an illusion. I mean, maybe you looked differently to other people, to blend in. Laurel's description of you just now, though, seems to be right in line with what I've always seen as well."

Gabriel winced and appeared to be trying to find the right words. Laurel thought that his expression was completely adorable - the mighty Archangel who had been repeatedly tasked with delivering holy messages, struggling for the right words to say.

"Well -"

Laurel crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head to the side. " _Well_?"

He swallowed hard, then sighed. "I really don't want to make the two of you sick, is all."

She smirked skeptically. "Sick?"

"Yeah. This body. It's ... not actually _alive_."

Westhoff gasped, but Laurel appeared to remain unfazed.

" _Huh?_ "

Gabriel gritted his teeth. _May as well get this over with_. "Father Westhoff is partially right. Both the Angels and the Jinn are spiritual entities. As such, we have no tangible, corporeal bodies. That's why even though there are Angels and Jinn around human beings all the time, most people can't see or hear them. For an Angel or a Jinn to be visible to the naked human eye, they either need the direct influence of God - either a bona fide miracle, or having the gift of psychic Sight like you do, which happens _very_ rarely - or they need a body. A _vessel_ , if you will. Optimally, to inhabit a human vessel, it shouldn't be someone living, since healthy living souls naturally keep us from fully entering and controlling human bodies. The Shayateen Jinn who appeared to Shawn Walker's ancestor Jehangir and cursed his bloodline inhabited the body of a local holy man who'd died days before. It also shouldn't be someone in complete charge of their mental faculties. That's how the Shayateen were able to control those patients at the institution to attack Shawn and me."

He turned to face a mirror on the wall. "Unfortunately for the Shayateen - and I suppose, _fortunately_ for the Jinn who help humanity, as well as all the Angels who did not rebel - the side you're on, Good or Evil - will determine how fast the vessel decays. Goodness and love brings life. Evil and hatred brings death. Those of us on the side of Good are also able to heal our vessels rapidly, should they become injured."

Westhoff nodded his head. "Hmm. I was impressed at how quickly you healed up after those patients attacked you."

Laurel walked up to stand behind Gabriel, and she gazed at their two reflections in the mirror. "Well now I understand why I can't read you fully. It's the human soul that gives life to thoughts and emotions. But now, I've got to know ... how old _is_ your body, Gabriel?"

His eyes met hers. "I've used this particular one since just before the American Civil War."

She smiled cynically. "Oh, great ... I've apparently got the hots for the _Holy Wolverine_." Rolling her eyes, she sighed, "I suppose it could have been worse. I mean, you could have been _Toad,_ or something."

Gabriel clucked his tongue in mock derision. He smiled at Laurel and shook his head melodramatically. "Perish the thought."


	3. Chapter 2: The Face of the Deep

The Face Of The Deep

" _In the Beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth. And the Earth was unformed, and devoid [of living beings], and thick darkness was upon the face of the deep waters …" Genesis 1:1-2_

An-Nar had been there, before the Beginning. And he remembered it. Very well, in fact. The time _before_ the Clay Men. When Jinn and Angels had both been highly, and - so they thought - _solely_ favored by the Creator.

 _Accursed specks of filth, the lot of them_ , he thought to himself. _Their end – their judgment_ _!_ _– can not come quickly enough_ _!_ In his mind's eye, he recalled how it had all came to pass …

Both groups - Angels and Jinn alike - were living embodiments of power. The Angels had been formed out of Light; the Jinn out of Fire. For countless and timeless ages, the two celestial races congregated at the feet of the Almighty, singing His praises, performing feats of miraculous strength, beauty and power, bending the fabric of Space and Time solely for His pleasure and the joy of existing.

The Creator had showed neither race any particular favoritism. For the love He lavished continually upon them both, Angels and Jinn alike felt that they were the highly favored Ones. There had been no jealousy, no rivalry. All had been perfect for so long …

Then at once the Creator, who had been seated upon His throne like the King He was, _stood_. The One who held all power and majesty in His hand, who reigned over all things, turned His gaze away from the First Created Beings and began to speak. Each of His words caused light and life to form instantaneously upon the dark, formless, water-covered Earth. Angels and Jinn alike watched in awe as a seemingly infinite number of stars, planets and galaxies suddenly lept into existence. And the lifeless Earth, after a single word uttered from the Creator, formed itself … growing mountains, sinking valleys, sprouting trees and plants, and finally birthing birds and beasts and creeping things from the water and the soil.

The song of praise they all sang to Him in those first days had been the most glorious that had ever been sung. He remembered how Lucifer - the Morning Star, thus named for his beauty, as well as his clean, bright and shining countenance - shone brighter still as the voices of the Angelic Choir weaved melody into streams of visible light and color, creating hues and textures which settled upon every new creation, giving each thing and living creature an identity unique unto itself.

By the end of the sixth day, Angels and Jinn were beside themselves with spiritual ecstasy. Both races had been created with free will, but neither felt there was any need to exercise any opposition to the Creator. Everything was wonderful! _Surely there was nothing more beautiful than this world the Creator had made_ , they had said among themselves. _Surely the Creator had made everything perfect!_ After all, He _had_ called all of it "good."

But then, something changed ...

The Creator went down to survey all that He had made, all that He had called "good." Yet, He'd found something was missing. The Angels and Jinn all watched, perplexed, from Heaven. None could even venture a guess as to what He would create to fill this void.

An-Nar scowled as he recalled what had happened next. _He reached down into the muck and mire, soiling His pure fingers with filth to make that stupid, ugly Clay Man ... staining His lips with mud, while He breathed the breath of life into an idiotic muck-puppet. A creature so helpless and dimwitted that it couldn't even keep itself amused in a brand new created world, and thus required a second stupid, ugly creature to be made out of its worthless clay flesh!_

Then, the unthinkable happened. The Creator announced that He was giving the Clay Man dominion over all the Earth. A third of the Angels gasped, then _screamed_ in outrage. The sound of their voices rent the sky with streams of darkness as the sixth day came to a close. The angelic rebels quickly fled, abandoning the Heavenly Realms, wanting nothing more to do with the Creator.

The majority of Jinn, however, literally burned in anger. Only a few had remained loyal. _Like that fool, Gabriel_ , An-Nar thought to himself. He snarled, remembering how the Creator had rewarded Gabriel for his loyalty by appointing him as a Heavenly Messenger.

 _Vile turncoat_ , he thought. _I will take great pleasure in snuffing the fire and light from his worthless body ... as well as putting a permanent end to the dominion of those stupid, ugly descendants of the first Clay Man! Soon ... very, very soon ..._

Had the Clay Man known the difference between clouds and billowing smoke, he would have known the first night sky he ever saw was darker than it should have ever been.


	4. Chapter 3: Destiny

CHAPTER THREE - "Destiny"

The recipe had called for baking soda, but in the end it hadn't really mattered. Once again, life had gotten in the way of Jasmine Walker's futile attempts at careful baking, and the gag gift her husband Shawn had bought her last Christmas - a framed, handmade sampler with the text "DINNER'S READY WHEN THE SMOKE ALARM GOES OFF!" embroidered in large, fire engine red letters - had proved to be uncannily accurate.

"No, no, no! Ugh! I will NEVER get this cooking thing down!" she cried out in exasperation, puffing a stray hair out of her face while fanning the billowing smoke and reaching desperately for the oven fan's ON button. Her son Amir, now six months old, grinned and giggled at her from his highchair. "Oh, you think Mommy's funny, huh?" she cooed at him, tickling his chin, and then began to giggle herself. Life may be like a box of chocolates to some, but for Jasmine, it was more like a bag of charcoal briquets. She smiled and thought to herself: _At least with briquets, I always know what I'm going to get!_

The baby giggled again and shook his toy rattle. Well, _almost_ always.

Amir had been her "miracle baby." Fifteen months ago, when Shawn told her he finally thought the time was "right" for the two of them to start having kids of their own, she had broken down and told him what the doctors had sadly informed her a few months earlier - she was unable to have children. Heartbroken, she had tearfully told him that if he wanted to leave her for someone who could have children, she'd understand and wouldn't try and stop him. But Life - and destiny - had found a way.

Unfortunately, "destiny" had also found a way to thrust Jasmine - as well as Shawn and their unborn son - into the middle of a showdown between the spiritual forces of light and darkness. After a frightening experience in their apartment - in which their furniture had rearranged itself, lightbulbs had exploded, a dark shadowy figure she'd previously seen in a window across the quad (which she'd always assumed was a cardboard cutout) had moved entirely on its own, and a mysterious phone call suddenly advised the two of them to flee for safety, Shawn had driven them to the Cathedral of All Saints on Long Lake Road. There they had met Father Westhoff and Gabriel, who informed them that they were being targeted by a Shayateen Jinn ... an evil creature made of fire who had pronounced a death curse upon Shawn's family over a century before.

Naturally, Shawn and Jasmine had immediately laughed at the two of them and left.

But the laughter quickly died when Jasmine was spirited away from Shawn, right before his eyes, and the creature he'd been warned about appeared before him. Shawn returned to the cathedral, determined to defeat this thing that was threatening him and his family. An epic battle had ensued, spanning both worlds. But in the end, Shawn had triumphed over the Shayateen and saved his whole family. In the process, he'd even met and teamed up with someone he didn't even know existed - his Uncle Ali - who had tried and failed to face the Shayateen Jinn on his own years before.

Afterward, Westhoff had admitted to Shawn that it was Gabriel - who was actually a Jinn who fought on the side of humanity - that had spirited Jasmine away from Shawn, giving her a safe hiding place back at the cathedral. The Shayateen, he'd said, were unable to harm her or the baby while they were on consecrated ground ... and by keeping her - and most importantly, her unborn son's - whereabouts from Shawn, the Shayateen Jinn were unable to read Shawn's mind, so Westhoff was able to completely keep the creatures from harming either of them. Jasmine smiled as she remembered how Shawn had wept with happiness when Gabriel confirmed to him that his wife was, indeed, carrying his unborn son.

 _Shawn_. Her husband ... her hero ... her love. The father of her miracle child. Although it had been five years since they'd first met, in her mind's eye it seemed like only yesterday.

Jasmine had never been all that religious herself, having been raised in Baltimore by a religiously-nonconformist single mother. Sure, she had gone to Catholic high school after winning a scholarship for high-achieving kids from low-income families (Archbishop Septon High School, _Home of the Lady Crocs!_ ), but the constant _up-down-up-down-cross yourself-wash-rinse-repeat_ of the mass as well as the priest's droning voice always seemed to ensure that the homilies would either bounce off of her or go straight over her head. Nevertheless, she did like some of the stories in her Religious Studies classes, especially the one about the Nativity. She had always wondered what it would be like to meet an angel, and to have him tell her that even though it technically and medically wasn't "possible," she carried a savior of mankind in her womb.

Like her mother, she had never felt any affiliation with on inclination toward anything spiritual. In fact, she'd spent a lot of time during mass doodling in a small notebook she kept in her purse. By the end of the first quarter, she'd finished fifteen pages of Bible illustrations.

On the Tuesday mass before Thanksgiving break her junior year, she'd just put the finishing touches on Samson defeating the Philistines when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Sister Mary Francis stood behind her, arms crossed, foot tapping in annoyance, a definitive scowl twisting up the already pretty twisted wrinkles in her ancient face. Jasmine gulped audibly. After all, corporal punishment was still permissible in parochial schools, and it wouldn't surprise her a bit if "doodling during mass" ended up being a spankable offense! Sister Mary nodded her head toward the door, and Jasmine packed up her purse and notebook and headed for the principal's office.

She'd waited on a small bench in the hallway, fidgeting with her uniform skirt and looking around nervously. Before today, she had never actually gotten in trouble before. Certainly she'd never had to go to the principal's office! So she had no idea what to expect.

"Miss ... Taylor?" a deep, male voice called from behind the door. Jasmine took a deep breath, picked up her purse and notebook, and walked inside.

Father Jeremy, the school principal, was a short, round, middle-aged man with gray hair and spectacles. The man behind the desk, however, was tall, slender, in his late 20's with brown hair and gray-blue eyes.

"Hi. I'm Brother Thomas. I'm filling in for Father Jeremy today. Apparently he's a little under the weather. I'm the principal over at your 'brother school,' Mount Saint Mike's, and they've asked me to fill in until Father Jeremy returns. So, uhm ... what seems to be the problem, and do you promise never to do whatever it is you did, ever again, so help you God?" He smiled and winked at her.

Jasmine, after shaking her head in astonishment (not to mention a little confusion), smiled back at Brother Thomas. "Yeah, definitely. Well, no. Not really. See, I was doodling during mass, and -"

Brother Thomas' face suddenly turned deadly serious. " _Doodling_ , you say? Well, that could be something which actually _does_ need to be dealt with, especially since I happen to know that Father Emanuel is saying mass today. I'll have to ask you a few questions, of course, and then we'll determine if a punishment is appropriate. Does that sound fair to you?" His facial expression remained unreadable. Jasmine gulped again.

"Uhm ... yes?"

"First of all, Miss Taylor, I'll need to see that doodle."

Jasmine reached into her purse for the notebook and handed it to him. He leafed through the pages, his face stern and unchanging except for raising an eyebrow after looking at the very last page.

He closed her notebook's cover and placed it off to the side of his desk. Then Brother Thomas grabbed a black and white composition notebook and a black felt-tip pen from a nearby shelf and began to write, keeping the page he was writing on pointed away from Jasmine so she couldn't see.

"Miss Taylor, how long have you been attending Archbishop Septon?"

"This is my first year here, sir. I transferred in from public school. I won a scholarship because I got good grades."

Brother Thomas wrote furiously on the paper, his brow furrowing. "I see ... and are you Catholic, Miss Taylor?"

Jasmine blushed. "No, sir. I'm not really _anything_ , I don't think. But I do like it here." More writing on Brother Thomas' paper. Another serious look.

"Third question. What, if anything, did you glean from Father Emanuel's homily?"

Jasmine fidgeted a little in her seat and took a deep breath. She thought hard about how best to diplomatically confess to never really listening to any of Father Emanuel's homilies, when Brother Thomas put up his hand to stop her.

"I'm sorry. That was unfair of me, Miss Taylor. _Nobody_ actually listens to Father Emanuel's homilies. Well ... nobody who wants to stay _awake_ , anyway."

She giggled at that, but became a little concerned when Brother Thomas continued to write things down in the notebook. "Last question, Miss Taylor. What do you think of my artistic ability?"

He turned the composition notebook around and showed her a cartoon rendering of Father Emanuel preaching to a flock of sheep, who had been so bored that they'd decided to count themselves. Several were snoring.

Jasmine erupted in laughter. Brother Thomas shushed her and smiled.

"Miss Taylor, I can't fault you for being less than enthusiastic at mass. Heck, we Catholics have been less than enthusiastic, and it's _our religion_! Still ... I do have to insist that you keep the doodling to a minimum, at least when Sister Mary Francis is around. Sheesh, what a grump! And get yourself into an art class. NOW. You have some real talent there, and I'd hate to see it go to waste. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Good. Now head over to the library until mass is over, and then join your classmates."

"Yes, sir!" She'd left the office smiling.

Two weeks later, she'd gotten approval to add an extra art class onto her electives schedule.

Two months later, she entered a regional drawing contest. She'd drawn a portrait of Brother Thomas. She'd won First Prize.

Two years later, she walked onto the campus of University of Michigan - Ann Arbor, having decided to major in Graphic and Visual Arts. She been assigned a student mentor by the Arts Department. Her mentor's name had been Shawn Walker.

After that, her life had never been the same.

Amir suddenly looked toward the door, snapping Jasmine's attention back to the present. She'd learned to trust the child's cues over the past fifteen months. His little face, which had been giggling a few moments earlier, looked concerned.

A knock came at the door. "Right again, kiddo!" she said, and grabbed the baseball bat they hid behind the hallway fern. "Who is it?" she called, not opening the door.

"An old priest, a youngish-looking Jinn, and a fabulously talented Pagan fashionista!" a woman's voice called back. "Couldja hurry it up, chicky? I've got a hot casserole here."


	5. Chapter 4A: Darkness and Light

_THE SONS OF ADAM WILL FALL ...THE JINN WILL RISE ...AND THIS WORLD WILL BE OURS ONCE AGAIN ..._

Shawn awoke from the nightmare, drenched with sweat, eyes wild. He'd had it several times since his prolific battle with the Shayateen Jinn who threatened his family and unborn son. Gabriel and Father Westhoff had assured him that it was natural to have nightmares of that night. After all, he'd nearly been killed himself fighting that thing. They'd even educated him about the history of the Jinn, their strengths and weaknesses, so that he'd be able to get over his fears, and so he could eventually teach little Amir how to protect himself.

Still, it shook him to his core. Jasmine had suggested that he go to a psychiatrist and get on antianxiety medications, and he had. But the moment he took them, they made him feel sleepy and unfocused. If the Shayateen were constantly watching - and threatening - his son, he'd have to remain alert. It wasn't that he was against the pills (he'd had friends who came back from Iraq and Afghanistan, and they'd done wonders for _them_ ), but until he was out of the battle _himself_ , they were a luxury he couldn't afford.

He lay in the bed, put his arm up over his head on the pillow, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. He envisioned his final battle with the Shayateen, when he'd weakened and eventually killed it with holy water from Mecca, and a knife that Father Westhoff had given to him, which had been made with metal forged in Jinn fire.

 _Only a dream ... Only a dream ... Only a dream ..._

"You say that like you believe it," a voice said from out of the darkness. He couldn't tell if it was male or female. That meant it might be neither - a spirit, possibly a Jinn - and that was hardly ever a good thing.

"Who's there?"he yelled, and quickly tried to turn on his reading lamp. Nothing. He reached for his knife, which he'd hidden in a bedside table.

"I am no one," the voice replied.

Shawn smirked. "If you're no one, then show yourself."

"I am no one, I am no one, I am no one," the voice repeated over and over ... again and again ... sometimes sounding male, sometimes female, sometimes like a little child. It seeped from the walls, it curled around his head like smoke, it slithered along the floorboards.

Then an evil laugh seemed to come from the very air around him. Shawn held the knife tighter, and began the prayer chant that Father Westhoff had taught him in Arabic the last time he fought the Shayateen. In English, it translated to: "God protect me from Satan, the damned."

Suddenly, the light bulb in the reading lamp lit up by itself. Shawn squinted at the sudden brightness, trying desperately to get his eyes to adjust. When they did, he fought the urge to scream at what he saw ...

Jasmine stood at the foot of the bed, holding Amir. Only it wasn't really Jasmine. It looked like Jasmine's body, but its head was the head of the Shayateen he had fought. Its black hair was matted, its sunken eye sockets held glowing coals of fire, and its black teeth jutted out at impossible angles. It stank of mildew and decay. When it bent to kiss Amir's head, Shawn thought he would retch.

Shawn leaped from the bed and tried to grab Amir from the creature's arms, but it instantly changed to its natural form - a fiery man-like creature with many arms and legs. He swung and sliced with the blessed knife, but the creatures arms, hydra-like, sprouted two more whenever the blade struck home.

Amir began to cry. Shawn looked up in horror as a dark, fiery portal opened up in midair behind the Shayateen. The creature seemed to swim through the darkness like a squid. Shawn tried to follow, but he couldn't enter the portal. The creature's voice - and Amir's cries - echoed through the darkness. Shawn fell to his knees, striking at the quickly-closing portal with the blade.

 _THE SONS OF ADAM WILL FALL ... THE JINN WILL RISE ... AND THIS WORLD WILL BE OURS ONCE AGAIN ..._

Shawn screamed in anger and terror. He heard a knock at the bedroom door.

"Shawn? Baby, Father Westhoff and Gabriel are here. With some, uhm ... lady. Listen, I'm going to get Amir ready for dinner. The lady brought some with her, and it smells really good, although I don't know how she'd known I'd burned our dinner again. OK, so uhm ... it's time to get up now. OK? _Shawn_?"

He opened his eyes. The room was still dark, and there was no one else in there with him.

He knew the battle was far from over.


	6. Chapter 4B: Priests Are People, Too

They all sat at the dining room table and started to eat Laurel's casserole.

"Wow, this is really good!" Shawn said, eagerly reaching to get himself a second helping. "Jas, you really need to get this recipe."

Jasmine turned to Laurel. "Crockpot?"

"Yep," Laurel said, grinning.

"Fantastic!" Shawn and Jasmine both exclaimed at the same time. Gabriel chuckled softly, shoving a forkful of chicken into his mouth before anyone else noticed.

They all made small talk as they dined, having decided beforehand not to discuss "The Problem" until afterward. Gabriel took Shawn, Jasmine and the baby into the living room to bring them up to speed on what the Shayateen were planning (as well as who the crazy woman with the mean Crockpot was), while Father Westhoff and Laurel cleared the dishes and took them into the kitchen.

The priest had just put the last glass in the sink when Laurel caught his arm.

"Father, when you and Gabriel were talking about fighting the Shayateen Jinn who'd come after this guy Shawn here and his family, I saw some of it. You know I can't help that, all those memories and thoughts just fly in without me wanting to ever see or experience them. I saw you taking up a sword and fighting some of them yourself. And let me tell ya, you're one badass, swordfighting SOB! How on Earth did you get involved in the _priesthood_?"

Westhoff smiled wryly. "I'd think that you'd already know the answer to that, Laurel."

She nodded. "Yeah, but I want to hear it from you. _Normality_ and all."

He turned back toward the sink, turned on the water and added some dish soap. Putting on Jasmine's hot pink dishwashing gloves with the big yellow and white daisies on the cuffs - which Laurel thought looked hilarious, paired with his priestly garments - he turned off the water, picked up some silverware and a sponge, and began to scrub.

"Long ago, I was a young man. No, really ... I know it's difficult to believe, but I assure you that it's the truth. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. Should I be a writer? A painter? A baseball champ? Run off and join the military? I just didn't know, and like a lot of young people today, I found myself running out of time before graduating high school, so I knew I had to make a decision.

"My father, Walter, wanted me to go work for the government. He had worked for the government, as did his father before him. I, however, thought that a goverment job, full of paperwork and inspections and having to dictate policy to a bunch of people who wanted to do their own thing and not listen to anything you tell them anyway ... well, that would be really _dickless_ of me, pardon my French!

"So I went to my parish priest, Father Blackthorn, for advice. Or rather, I _started_ to. After dinner one night, following several hours of internal debate, I decided to walk to the church and see what he had to tell me. It was after dark by the time I got there. When I did get there, I found him around the back of the church, engaged in brutal hand-to-hand combat with a Shayateen Jinn. He was wielding that sword you must have seen me wielding in your vision. Of course, I had no idea what the thing he was fighting was. I just knew that it was big, scary, fiery-looking, and appeared to be winning the fight. So I did what any normal teenage boy would do, when faced with what looks like a demon ... I hid behind a tree and tried not to piss my pants!

"But then Gabriel arrived, and he and Father Blackthorn killed the thing. Unfortunately, Father Blackthorn had been mortally wounded during the fight. Gabriel tried to heal him ... tried and tried, but in vain. Apparently, it was his time. I knelt beside Father Blackthorn and held his hand. He asked me if I'd seen the Shayateen. I told him that I had, and he nodded to Gabriel. His dying words to me were, 'Listen to Gabriel, and always fight the good fight.' Then he died. Right there, under the tree I'd hidden behind only moments before. That night, I knew what it was that I was supposed to do. My folks didn't understand - heck, my father didn't even talk to me for a _year_! - but it's been the right choice, I'm sure of it.

"Gabriel took me under his wing, so to speak. I soon discovered that there was a clandestine band of priests whose sole purpose was to defend humanity from the Shayateen. And we weren't the only ones watching over and guarding humanity - there were Jewish rabbis and Muslim clerics around the world who did as well. Through joining our strengths together, binding our talents, we have successfully fought back the Shayateen for centuries."

Westhoff looked as though he was trying to fight back tears, but then his jaw hardened and he turned to Laurel. "Listen to Gabriel, and always fight the good fight, Laurel. I have no idea how long I'm going to be on this Earth, and I can tell you I've seen things that would turn you _white_... but in the long run, Gabriel knows what he's doing, and he's never steered me wrong. Think about it - he's got six thousand years plus worth of knowledge. If he says we need you, then I trust his judgment. I know you're scared. I am, too. Anyone would be foolish _not_ to be. But we have God and Good and whatever else you want to call it on our side. It's your turn to join this team now. You need to be strong and brave, even when every fiber of your being is screaming for you to beat a quick path back to your apartment. I've seen that look in your eyes a few times, when you pop your mouth off. I get it, I really do. But you need to believe me, Laurel, when I tell you that we'll always have your back."

Laurel smiled at Westhoff. "I do believe you," she said. Then she looked at the St. Christopher medal he wore around his neck, threw her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. "Let the rest of the dishes soak, Father ... we have some battle plans to draw up!"


	7. Chapter 5: Cookies and Monsters

COOKIES AND MONSTERS

Baby Amir happily chewed on an angel-shaped rattle in his playpen while the five adults sat in the living room to talk.

Westhoff began: "Here's what we know. A little over a year and a half ago, supernatural ripples began to spread out, affecting people all across the world. Psychic attacks, geothermic phenomena, so-called 'demonic possessions,' unexplained outbreaks of new diseases. At first, it was all thought to be secondary to purely natural occurring events or illnesses. Nothing seemed to overlap. It was all things that happen every day in our world without any supernatural causes. Increased numbers of people diagnosed with mental illness, especially schizophrenia. Previously undiscovered cracks and vents opening in the Earth's crust. Epilepsy. Destruction of the rainforests causing animals infected with new diseases to relocate to more densely-populated human areas. None of it appeared to be connected in the slightest, or paranormal.

"On the surface, it seemed completely reasonable to believe that what was happening was well within the realm of the natural. Even the supernatural events which occurred weren't largely out of the ordinary. For example, Shawn's encounter with the Shayateen had been prophesied – expected – so despite the Jinn who cursed his bloodline transcending the barrier between the physical and spiritual, it was not considered by those of us charged with protecting humanity as anything 'unusual.'"

Laurel raised both a finger and an eyebrow, yet somehow managed to will herself to remain silent.

The priest cleared his throat and continued. "Somebody began to notice patterns starting to emerge which couldn't be explained away solely by natural means."

Shawn cocked his head to the side. "Somebody as in …?"

Westhoff looked uncomfortable. "Let's just say the individual in question happens to be far above my pay scale. Which is why he ordered 200 new priests and nuns to be commissioned to study the threat and to destroy it if need be."

Jasmine's eyes got as wide as dinner plates. "You mean, that exorcist class they talked about in the news? They're really –"

"Newly trained warriors, commissioned to fight Shayateen," Gabriel finished.

"Way to go, Frankie!" Laurel said, grinning and giving a thumbs-up sign.

Shawn, on the other hand, didn't grin. "Are you telling me that it's going to take at least 200 people to fight this thing?" He shook his head, leaned back in the couch and raked his fingers through his hair. "Jeez ... it's never gonna end." He closed his eyes tightly like he was fighting a headache. Jasmine noticed he was starting to get dark circles under them. She put her arm around Shawn's shoulders and said, "So now what do we do?"

"First, we'll need to determine the threat to Amir," Gabriel answered. "He's the Guardian spoken about in the Jinn Scrolls. But of course, he's still an infant, and while he has definitely shown his powers, he can't possibly know how to defend himself. If anything happens to him, all of humanity will be in jeopardy. The incident with the Shayateen who came after Shawn was just them 'putting their toe in the water,' so to speak. The fact that they've been gathering together is highly troubling, since it shows that they know it will take a concentrated effort to thwart God's plan to protect mankind." He looked at Shawn. "Have there been any disturbances? Have you seen or heard anything?"

Shawn shook his head. "No. Nothing."

Laurel glared at Shawn. "Liar. There was one here tonight."

"No, there wasn't. That was just a dream."

Jasmine looked horrified. "Shawn! What is she talking about?"

Shawn took her hand in his. "There wasn't anything here. She's wrong. It was just a bad dream. The same one I've had for a long time." He paused, as if remembering. "No, wait ... it _was_ different this time. It was more than just the Shayateen showing up and saying what he said to me in the woods. It came into my room, and it ... it took Amir."

Jasmine got up, walked to the playpen and picked up the baby. She held him tightly to her chest. "Oh my god, Shawn ... why didn't you _say_ anything?"

He put his face in his hands, clearly exhausted. "I thought ... I don't know what I thought. I mean, the nightmares have been coming more regularly. I figured it was just my mind wanting to end this thing." He looked up at Jasmine. The circles under his eyes looked even darker. "I haven't been taking those pills the doctor gave me, either. They make me feel even more worn out than the nightmares."

Just as Jasmine was about to interject, Laurel jumped in. "Say, it sure is getting a wee bit too dramatic for me in here. What say we take a look around and see if we can figure out if this was just a taunt by a rogue Shayateen, or something slightly meatier, huh?" She walked to Shawn's bedroom door, but before she even touched the doorknob, she gagged. "Gaah, that's rancid! It smells like rotten eggs and charcoal!"

Jasmine walked to stand beside her. "I don't smell anything."

"Me neither," said Shawn. Westhoff shook his head.

Gabriel got up and stood beside Laurel. He breathed in, but then shook his head as well. "You say you smell rotten eggs? Sulfur, and brimstone?"

"Yeah, I do. Seriously, you don't _smell_ that? It's disgusting, like egg salad that went bad. And then like someone lit a barbecue." She leaned in and sniffed Gabriel's lapel. "You, on the other hand, smell a little like ... cookies."

Gabriel looked at Laurel like she was crazy. _"Cookies?!"_

Laurel struggled to describe what she was smelling. "Yeah ... I mean, no ... I mean ... you've got this, uhm, aroma swirling around you that smells like someone's baking cookies. It's sweet, and warm, and ... maybe a little bit like hot maple syrup. But it's not maple syrup." She threw up her hands in frustration. "Ugh! I can't describe what it's like, because it's not like anything that _can_ be described. But I can tell right away that it's a good thing."

Westhoff put up his hand. "I think I know what she's talking about. She's basically sensing a kind of aura, only instead of creating a visual signature for her mind to comprehend, it's creating an _olfactory_ one."

Laurel rolled her eyes. "Fantastic. Now I can change my name to Lassie." She turned to Gabriel and said, "Wait ... this doesn't make any sense. I have ESP. That's all. I can read people's thoughts, and occasionally I can know things without any human input. I _can't_ read people's _auras_. In fact, I've spent a lot of my life convinced the damned things don't even _exist_. So what the hell is going _on_?"

Gabriel looked perplexed. "I don't know. But it will be interesting to see if you develop any more abilities in the coming days."

She looked questioningly at the angel. "Uhm, Gabe ... I don't know if you recall, but abilities don't just show up overnight. You're either born with them, or they hit you at adolescence. And even then, it's usually a very slow progression. I find it highly unlikely that I could go forty plus years and _not_ notice ever having a second gift."

He smiled and said softly, "How long has it been since you were out of that apartment? Around other people, or around spirit beings?"

Laurel winced. "A while."

Gabriel reached out and touched Laurel's face, gently stroking her cheek. "And what did your children 'smell' like when they were born? The moment that you first held them in your arms, and heard their little voices crying for you?"

Her eyes began to fill with tears, and her voice quavered. "Like ... like _cookies_."

Gabriel smiled at Laurel. She smiled back at him and wiped away a stray tear that had run down her cheek. She turned her head and noticed that Father Westhoff had joined them in the hallway. Shawn, however, had stayed on the couch.

"Open the door, Laurel," Westhoff said. She reached out and turned the handle.

The room was almost pitch black, even though it was only 5:30 in the afternoon. Shawn had drawn the blinds so he could sleep, and the light-blocking curtains were definitely doing their job. Laurel pointed to the nightstand where Shawn's knife was hidden.

"Over there," she said. "I can feel something."

Gabriel hit the light switch, and they walked into the room. Laurel opened the nightstand's drawer and took out the knife.

"That's the one Father Westhoff gave us, the night this all started," Jasmine said.

Laurel studied the knife as she held it. It was beautiful. The knife had a highly polished steel blade with curved cross-guards, dark brown leather wrapped around the hilt. A black cabochon containing a symbol had been set into it. The symbol was comprised of a Magen David, a cross, and a crescent and star ... the symbols which stood for the three Abrahamic faiths.

"There's something on it."

Jasmine looked. "I don't see anything."

Laurel touched the knife blade, being careful not to cut herself on its sharp edges. "It's not something you can see, but believe me ... it's there."

"Shawn used it against the Shayateen who cursed his family," Gabriel said.

"So it's got Shayateen blood on it?" Laurel asked.

Jasmine looked bewildered. "I didn't think the Jinn _could_ bleed. I mean, they're made of fire, not blood. Right, Gabriel?"

Gabriel's face became serious, his jaw hardening. "They bleed, only humans usually can't see it. It's so hot that it seems to evaporate and disappear before their eyes. But it's still there."

"And where there's blood, there's a way of supernaturally tracking someone ... or some _thing_ ," Laurel finished. She sighed. "Well now I guess I know why I'm here, then."

Gabriel looked at Laurel and said, "I have a funny feeling that by the time this is over, we'll discover that's not the _only_ reason you're here."


	8. Chapter 6A: Bright Lights, Big Cathedral

Shawn had packed up the baby in Jasmine's minivan, and the three of them had followed Father Westhoff, Gabriel and Laurel back to the Cathedral of All Saints. It wasn't an extremely long drive, not much more than 45 minutes or so from the apartment, but Shawn felt as though it took forever to get there. He wasn't sure if it was the fatigue making him feel that way, or the fact that they were fleeing to a place they knew would shelter them from the Shayateen, and for him that comfort simply couldn't come quickly enough. Especially since the sun had just set half an hour ago.

As Gabriel's black Suburban rounded the last curve on Long Lake Road, Laurel, seated in the right rear passenger seat, looked out the window. She saw the lights of the cathedral flickering through the trees, and then suddenly gasped when the huge Gothic structure came into view.

"Holy crap ... that thing's lit up like a friggin' _Christmas tree_!"

"What do you mean?" Westhoff asked. "Only the usual lights are on."

"Oh, no," Laurel replied. "Believe me, Padre ... if you saw what I saw, you'd pull a Corey Hart, pronto."

"Huh?"

"Sunglasses at night," she replied. Westhoff mouthed a silent "oh," while Gabriel grinned and chuckled softly.

The angel looked at Laurel in his rear view mirror. "Laurel, have you ever been able to see spirit beings without their human forms before?"

She shook her head. "Nope. I guess we can chalk this one up as another unknown ability." Her eyes opened wide as she gazed at the cathedral. "God, is _that_ what those lights are? They're so beautiful. Like watching those glowing jellyfish you see on Animal Planet." She wrinkled her nose and turned to look at Gabriel's steel blue eyes in the mirror. "Please tell me you don't look like a jellyfish though, Gabe. That would be totally depressing."

He laughed. "No. The forms of our bodies are very much like yours. You're probably just starting to see our – for lack of a better term – _auras_ , since they tend to be brighter, the more in tune with the spiritual world you happen to be. I've noticed a slightly brighter glow around you, as well."

Laurel smirked. "Just don't get any ideas about calling me Sparky."

Gabriel smiled and said, "I'm pretty sure I can resist the urge."

Father Westhoff turned around to face Laurel. "I'm not surprised that you're sensing something about the cathedral. It's been protected by angels since the day the ground was consecrated. As well as by Jinn who later became archangels," he said, patting Gabriel on the shoulder. "That's how we know its walls will give us protection from the Shayateen."

The two vehicles pulled up and parked near the door on the west side of the building, and all of them walked quickly into the cathedral's abbey. Laurel stopped just short of entering and took a final look at the exterior of the building before walking inside. "Hey, Padre ... remind me to ask you about this place's history. I know you told me about the angels, but I'm telling you … it's got some serious power of its own."

Westhoff closed the door behind her, securing it with a deadbolt. "You've got a deal. And just so you know, it looks even better during the day."

She smiled as a bright pink and blue swirl floated past her eyes. "That's really a matter of opinion."

They placed the bags they'd brought with them in an empty bedroom and followed Father Westhoff and Gabriel into the priest's office. Jasmine put Amir's carseat down gently next to Westhoff's large executive desk. The infant had fallen asleep on the ride over and snored softly before cuddling with a light blue blanket.

Gabriel began to speak. "The first thing we need to do is some training. Shawn, have you been practicing with the knife like I showed you?"

Shawn nodded. "Yeah. Well, as best as I can, anyway. I've definitely gotten better at it since last time."

"Good. We'll still set up the attic room and work on some more techniques. This is definitely not time to get rusty. Laurel, we'll need to do some tests to see the extent of your abilities."

Jasmine gasped. "Will she have to do the chillah, like Shawn did?"

Gabriel shook his head. "No. These will be simple tests to determine the extent of the abilities she already knows she has, and then a few extra to see if there are any more she's unaware of."

Laurel smiled and patted Jasmine's hand. "It's OK, chicky. I can handle myself." Jasmine smiled back at her uncertainly and took Amir back to the abbey bedroom while the others headed off to the training area in the attic.


	9. Chapter 6B: New Recruits

The attic room used for training was sparsely furnished. It had, obviously, begun as a simple storage area for the abbey residents. But after the events of the previous year, in order to continue training for Shawn, Father Westhoff and Gabriel had moved many of the boxes, icons and extra chairs off to the side, making way for a modest amount of floor space. Several sandbags of various sizes, shapes and weights hung from the ceiling by thin ropes. A few of the larger wooden storage crates remained in their original places, functioning as either obstacles to avoid or to hide behind as cover. On the wall hung a collection of wooden sparring swords of varying size.

Shawn reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out the sheathed Jinn-metal blade. He attached it to the belt loop on his right hip for easier access when needed. He would start with the training swords tonight, but he still wanted to remember the feel of the blade strapped to his side as it was intended to be while he did his training. He'd not gone a day since last year's battle without it always within arm's reach.

Bending, Shawn stretched his back, arms and legs to limber up before the practice session began. He'd done this many times before, and he knew the importance of preparing his body for combat; however, he knew that the Shayateen would not be as patient as Gabriel and Father Westhoff in allowing him to limber up before attacking, so he'd devised a quick warm-up that he could perform in under a minute.

Just as he finished warming up, Father Westhoff turned to Gabriel and said, "I've got this here. You take Laurel for her training. Also, I believe the people we're waiting for are downstairs in the small chapel. At least, that's where they _should_ be by now. If they are, send them up here."

"Will do," Gabriel replied.

Laurel frowned. "Awww! I wanted to see Shawn go all Elektra and stuff, but without the Affleck."

Gabriel put his hand on Laurel's shoulder and ushered her back to the small wooden staircase. Then he smiled and said, "All in good time. At some point, I hope to train you a bit with the obstacle course. Right now though, I need to see if our reinforcements have arrived, and then we'll begin training _you_."

" _Reinforcements_? You mean there are more than just we merry four in this battle?"

"I'm afraid so ... and that's a very good thing. We'll need everyone we can get, I fear."

They reached the chapel door and went inside. For a "small chapel," it was still a huge room. On either side, twelve rounded arches stood below large stained glass representations of saints and Bible stories. In the front, a large round arch framed the altar, which was flanked on both sides by white marble icons of Jesus and Mary. A hundred rows of mahogany pews lined the floor.

Laurel saw two men in the front of the chapel. One was a middle-aged man with a shaved head and East Indian features, who sat on the front pew looking nervous. The other appeared to be a tall middle-aged white man, wearing an Army uniform. His insignia at first appeared to be the eagle designating the rank of Colonel, but as they got closer Laurel realized it was actually an angel instead. And the man was glowing. _Brightly_. He looked at the two of them and frowned.

"You are late, Gabriel."

The smaller man looked up. "Gabriel!" he exclaimed when he saw the angel. "I'm so happy to see you! This guy came to my house and said I needed to go with him. Then he grabbed me and threw me in a black car and brought me here. He won't tell me what's going on. For that matter, he won't talk, _period_. So, what's going on, Gabriel? Are Shawn and the baby OK? And Jasmine?"

Gabriel nodded his head. "They're all fine, Ali. They're here, in fact. Jasmine and the baby are sleeping in the abbey. Shawn is upstairs working on his training, which is why I had you brought here. The Shayateen are apparently planning something very big, and three of you will need to work together. Father Westhoff will give you the details."

Ali frowned. "Three of us?"

"Yes," Gabriel replied. "You, Shawn, and ... oh, I'm sorry. I suppose some introductions are in order. Ali, this is Laurel. She'll be training with me. She has some abilities that will help us in our task. And of course you've already met Michael."


	10. Chapter 7: Daddy's Little Girl

There has been debate in the scientific community as to whether or not light has weight. Some believe that since light has both energy and momentum and can create a gravitational effect, that it therefore has weight. Some say that since weight is determined by the gravitational force exerted on objects with mass (and photons do not have resting mass), it couldn't possibly weigh anything.

The man at the bar knew that light and darkness both weighed more than everything in the whole goddamned world. At least, figuratively. He quickly downed his double scotch whiskey and signaled the bartender for another.

"Haven't you had enough, fella? I mean, you've had nine of 'em already, and it is only 10:30 in the morning."

The man scowled and tapped his glass repeatedly on the bar. Despite red-rimmed eyes and a bloated and blotched complexion,n an astonishingly clear voice, he snarled: "I'll tell you when I've had enough, boy. Now give me a damned refill!"

The bartender acquiesced. "OK, dude … it's your liver."

After the bartender returned to the other end of the bar to wash glasses, the man turned his attention to the TV on the wall. A perky blonde wearing a low cut blouse and $500 shoes was chattering on a news channel with an obviously well-paid bald psychiatrist and a D-list blonde comedienne who'd done several crappy movies (and a spread in a porno magazine) about the sudden rise in mental illness diagnoses across the country. The psychiatrist was apparently blaming it on the President and gay people; the "actress," Polio vaccines.

"Couple of fucking _morons_ ," the man mumbled to himself. "It has nothing to do with _any_ of that." He closed his eyes, and the station changed to a talk show where a man and woman were finding out the paternity of their 3-year-old child.

"Luke, you _are_ the father!" the toothy male talk show host exclaimed to wild hoots, squeals and howls from the studio audience. The man and woman embraced and kissed. Tears were streaming down both of their faces as their rosy-cheeked toddler was carried out to them by a production assistant wearing a headset two sizes too big for her.

The man winced. He, too, had once been a father. And he too had felt overjoyed when his infant daughter had been handed to him, and he held her in his arms for the very first time. He remembered stroking the baby's soft dark brown hair and kissing her tiny forehead, fingers and toes. His wife, Dafna, had wanted to name the baby "Chava," after the first woman. But in the end, his innate ability to influence had persuaded her to name the child "Abigail" … "my father's delight."

 _It was a fitting name_ , he thought to himself. _She was the most beautiful creature I'd ever laid eyes upon._

He closed his eyes and remembered the child. Her cry, her laugh, her wobbling first footsteps. Her smile as he sang to her in her cot at night. The sound of her breath, followed by her soft little snores.

Abigail had been the spitting image of her mother in most respects, but she definitely had inherited her father's dark, brooding, expressive eyes. This had been both good and bad. More than once, she'd been labeled a 'troublemaker,' and for good reason.

She hadn't just inherited her father's eyes. She'd also inherited some of her father's power. And back in those days, before the advent of reason and science, a young girl with power was as good as dead.

When her mother had noticed Abigail reaching for a piece of low-hanging fruit, and the fruit floated down like a feather into the child's hand, she'd been terrified and went to speak with the child's father. He assured her that he'd watch over the girl and teach her to restrain her abilities. That night they'd both sat down and spoken with Abigail, warning her and making her promise never to let _anyone_ know what she could do.

Abigail had been playing with her friend Yosef by the small creek separating their land from their neighbor Eitan's. She had been four. Yosef, five. They'd grown to become the best of friends.

 _Dammit_ , the man thought. _I don't want to remember!_ He raised a finger to order another whiskey and gulped it down.

It had been springtime. The sun shone brightly in the sky, and a gentle breeze made the aroma of fruit-bearing trees fill the air. The two of them floated small leaves down the waterway, each cheering with delight whenever one overtook the other. But then, when Yosef's leaf became lodged in a fallen branch and Abigail's leaf passed it, he'd decided to try and wade out and release it. He didn't know the bottom of the creek suddenly dropped off and became deeper until it was too late.

Abigail screamed for Yosef when he didn't come back up. The water frightened her, and she began to wail. She reached out her hand and cried the child to come back to her.

 _And he did. He came back to her._

Eitan had heard Abigail's cries and ran to see what was happening. Yosef's older brothers Dan and Dotan had followed along behind Eitan, as well as the wife of another neighbor who'd just come by to trade for eggs. As the group reached the spot where Abigail stood, none of them could believe what they were seeing: Abigail, standing on the water's edge with her hands held out as if to catch something … the waters opening up to reveal the boy rising above them to finally come to rest on the shore.

But it was too late. Yosef was gone. Eitan crumpled to his knees by his son's lifeless body and scooped him to his chest, weeping. Dotan and the neighbor woman remained motionless, but Dan walked quickly up to the little girl.

"Witch! Demon!" Dan had screamed at Abigail. "Filthy, murderous witch! You murdered my brother!" Abigail spun around, not having heard Dan sneak up hehind her. He grabbed the terrified girl by the hair and flung her forcefully to the ground. Her face smashed hard against a river rock, knocking out two teeth and rendering her unconscious. Dotan looked on in horror, but did nothing.

"Father, this is a daughter of the Evil One!" Dan hissed through clenched teeth. "We must cleanse the uncleanness from among us!" He turned to Dotan. "Bring me wood, and rope. Only _fire_ can burn away the abomination!"

His father didn't hear him. He hugged Yosef, singing his favorite lullaby between sobs and rocking slightly. It would be weeks before he acknowledged anything or anyone, and even then, he spoke in single syllables for the rest of his life.

Dotan returned more quickly than Dan had expected with the wood and rope. Abigail, still unconscious, remained still as the two boys bound her tightly with the rope. They made a pile of the wood and stuck kindling at the base, then lay the child atop the makeshift pyre.

Dan began to look for flint to make a spark. He crawled on the ground and searched through stones, but then stopped as a stranger he hadn't noticed earlier seemed to suddenly appear, carrying an already-lit torch. He wore black hooded robes which hid much of his face, but Dan could tell that the stranger was smiling. Only the smile didn't seem like a normal smile - it was more like that of a wild beast baring its teeth. "Cleansssse the uncleannessss from among you, child," the stranger said, and the words sounded like the buzzing of a hundred thousand flies. Dan couldn't be sure, but the stranger's skin looked mottled. Burned, even.

The kindling had caught quickly, and Abigail hadn't been awake to know what had happened. Small comfort to a grieving father.

The man at the bar gritted his teeth and called for another round as the memory of Abigail's fire-charred body invaded his mind. He remembered Dafna's screams, and how after they'd buried their little girl, she'd gone out and hung herself.

He hadn't been there for Abigail. He'd been away, ironically, to find her a unique gift, something to make her smile. And he was so distracted in his own grief that he barely noticed his wife's. Now, the only place he'd see either of them again was in his memory.

For the first thousand years or so, he'd wandered the Earth. A thousand years later, the clay men had discovered how to make wine, and he'd found it to be a somewhat efficacious - if not entirely therapeutic - way to forget. When whiskey was invented, he'd visited nearly every bar and liquor store in the world trying to drink away his insurmountable pain. Problem was, when you happened to be an immortal being created from light whose form miraculously tended to instantaneously heal itself from the effects of the tasty but poisonous brown liquid, drinking became more of a pastime than a remedy.

He put on a brown leather jacket, reaching inside to pull out three $20 bills. Tossing it on the bar, he started to walk out the front door, but then stopped and cocked his head as if listening to something.

"Hey, kid ... where's the nearest church?"

The bartender laughed as he dried a glass with a dishtowel. "Seeking forgiveness for drinking most of my whiskey, are ya?"

The man frowned. "Just spill it. Where?"

"Out Long Lake Road, east of here. About ... oh ... four or five miles, give or take."

The man thanked him, and pulling up the collar of his coat, walked out the door.


	11. Chapter 8: Life or Death

Willa Jorgensen was 83 years old. Her friends, neighbors, and remaining family - now down to a lone, widowed daughter named Bernice - all described her as a "vibrant, happy lady who loved life." She played bingo twice a week at the local VFW, drank a pot of black coffee per day, and still drove her own car to deliver meals to the less fortunate.

Until 38 days ago, that is.

Bernice had shown up to her mother's house at 7:43am, almost twenty minutes earlier than she'd told her mother to be ready to go. She reached for the front doorknob and turned, but it remained firmly locked in place.

 _That's strange_ , Bernice thought to herself. _I wonder if Mama forgot about going to the farmer's market this morning?_ She knocked on the door, waited, then knocked again. Nothing.

Walking around to the side of the house and trying to peer in all the windows for any sign of movement, Bernice felt her heart beginning to pound. This wasn't like her mother. Willa had awakened at 5:15am for the past forty years, without fail, and had no signs of dementia or senility. She took a deep breath, opened the side gate leading to the back yard, and walked toward the rear entrance.

Percy, her mother's pet dog, ran up to Bernice, running around in circles. His usual tail-wagging was absent. His eyes looked wild, and he kept coming up to her and then turning back to the sliding glass door, which was partially open.

Bernice looked inside. Her mother lay face down on the floor, a bowlful of dog kibble strewn around her. A slight trickle of blood had flowed from a gash in her forehead, and was beginning to congeal on the dark red tile floor beneath her.

"Oh my god, _Mom_!" Bernice cried, flinging the sliding door open and rushing to her side. She checked her mother's pulse. It was weak, but still there, and she was breathing. Fumbling through her purse for her cell phone, she quickly dialed 911 and waited for the paramedics to arrive.

The dispatcher had told her not to try and move her mother, in case she had any more head or neck injuries, so Bernice held Willa's hand. She rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her face, as she sang a song that once had been her lullaby.

 _Stars shining bright above you_

 _Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"_

 _Birds singin' in the sycamore tree_

 _Dream a little dream of me_

The ambulance arrived in record time, and after a battery of tests Willa was taken to Pacemuth Hospital. Her room overlooked an arboretum which at this time of the year had just begun to spring to life, but she never had an opportunity to see it. Bernice kept vigil at her bedside, hopeful for the slightest improvement.

None ever came.

On her 39th day - May 19th - a tall, young serious-looking doctor with dark hair and jet black eyes walked into Willa's room at 8:47am in the morning. Bernice looked up at him in puzzlement, since he was not her mother's usual ICU physician. In fact, he barely looked old enough to have completed medical school.

He stood beside Bernice. "Miss Jorgensen?"

Bernice blushed and shook her head. "No, actually it's Davidson. I'm a widow."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that, Mrs. Davidson. You _are_ Mrs. Jorgensen's daughter though, are you not?"

"Yes, why?"

"I just wanted to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Azra. I'll be assisting with your mother's care." He held out his hand, and Bernice shook it warmly.

"Thank you, Dr. Azra. It's a pleasure to meet you."

The young doctor walked around to Willa's bedside and checked her pulse and reflexes. Then he held up a small flashlight and looked into each of her eyes.

"I'm afraid that things are not looking particularly well for your mother. She suffered a terrible stroke, followed by a head trauma, and the coma state she's been in since then doesn't seem to be changing whatsoever. In fact, her condition seems to be deteriorating."

Bernice began to sniffle. "Are you saying ...?"

His face became serious. "I'm saying that despite our best efforts, it's conceivable - even probable - that your mother may be leaving us very soon."

"Oh, god. No." She looked at her mother, then back at the doctor. "Can't you do anything? Please, she's all I've got!"

The young doctor shook his head. "I'm sorry. I wish I had better news to deliver."

Bernice ran from the room in tears. A few moments later, another young doctor came into the room - this one equally tall, but with the kind of compassionate eyes and soft features that immediately sets people at ease. His name badge read "Dr. Raphael."

"Change of plans," he said to Dr. Azra. He placed his hand on Willa's forehead and closed his eyes. A moment later, Willa opened her own.

"Wh-where am I? What's going on?" she asked, bewildered. The two doctors walked out of the room.

Nobody saw them leave. In fact, when questioned later, nobody said they saw any doctors at all. And certainly nobody knew that Dr. Azra was also known as the Archangel of Death, Dr. Raphael the Archangel of Healing ... and that both were now on their way to the Cathedral of All Saints.


	12. Chapter 9: Suffering The Children

SUFFERING ... THE CHILDREN

Gabriel and Laurel walked into a small room off the main sanctuary. It too - like the attic training room - had furniture and icon statues pushed back along its walls. But here on the floor, a large pentagram had been drawn salt.

"Hmm, how progressive," Laurel said, smirking. "I didn't think anyone in this place would have allowed something like this."

Gabriel nodded. "Yes, it's normally covered up by that rolled-up rug in the corner. But honestly, I don't see why. After all, the five-pointed star stands for the perfect state of Man with the elements at the time of Creation. And of course, a circle around it is not only a sign of infinity, but also a symbol of protection against evil, specifically Shayateen."

"But there's no circle here," Laurel replied.

"That's because you haven't begun your meditation yet." He gestured for Laurel to sit in the middle of the star. "I need you to empty your mind of everything, and then we'll be able to begin looking for signs of any abilities you may not be fully aware of having. We'll need everything we can to win this battle."

Laurel bent down and sat cross-legged on the floor, hands resting lightly on her knees, right in the center of the pentagram, while Gabriel drew a large circle around the outside in salt. When she'd been a child, they'd called this sitting position "Indian style," but nowadays you'd get a cross talking-to if you dared to use a non-P.C. term like that. _May as well call it the I'm Sitting And I Can't Get Up style anyway_ , she thought, and then quickly pushed the thought out of her head. Had to stay focused and positive, after all, and slightly-aching middle-aged woman joints were the antithesis of both focus _and_ positivity.

Plus, she noticed that Gabriel had been frowning at her.

She closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath. She let it out, counting to ten. Willing any stray thoughts to leave, she concentrated her mind on the word _NOTHING_...

Just at the moment she thought she'd achieved her "nothingness," she felt Gabriel's hands on hers. She opened her eyes. He still looked serious, but at least he wasn't frowning anymore.

"Laurel," he said softly. "Do you know where your abilities came from?"

Now it was Laurel's turn to frown. She closed her eyes again, but then peeked one back open to look at Gabriel. "Uhm ... no. No I don't. And I've always found it wise never to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when that gift horse bites. And happens to be rabid." She closed her eye again and took another deep breath. "Why?"

Gabriel smiled. Despite her spunk, Laurel truly was an innocent. He admired how long she'd manage to survive, with thousands of other people's thoughts and memories constantly running through her mind. Most of the people he'd seen with her abilities went mad at an early age, were institutionalized, or committed suicide.

"Would you like to?"

Laurel's eyes shot open and she smirked at him. "Just as long as you don't tell me it's all part of some whackadoodle experiment by a secret government agency, and that the zombified corpse of George C. Scott, dressed up like a one-eyed Native American, is coming to first get my story and then to _kill_ me."

He shook his head, incredulous. "You really _do_ watch too much TV." They both laughed then. Laurel thought it was the most natural sound she'd ever heard in her life. "But really, Laurel," he continued. "I can tell you, if you really want to know."

She cocked her head to the side. "Temptation. Nice. You really _are_ a Jinn. Besides, would it even make a difference?"

"It might."

Laurel sighed. She had wanted to know, years ago. But nobody had been either willing or able to tell her, and so she'd resigned herself to simply being a "freak." Capital _F_. How many other people had ever had a bona fide Angel - or Jinn, whatever he was - offering them information that could possibly change the course of their lives? _Not many_ , she thought to herself.

"Go ahead, Gabriel. What the hell." She swung her legs around, drew her knees up to her chest, and rested her arms and head on them. She turned her face toward him and listened.

Gabriel's voice deepened as he began to speak.

"Do you remember in the Torah, where it talks about the Nephilim?"

"Hmm, well it's been a few _decades_ since I was forced to go to Sunday School. But as I recall, the Nephilim were the offspring of angels who married beautiful human women. Not much is said about them, other than they were giants who did amazing feats. Are you saying I'm a giant? Because I'm tall, but I'm not _that_ tall!"

His eyes softened. "No, Laurel. It's true that _some_ of the Nephilim were giants. Usually the boys. But it was the _girls_ who by and large did the - as you deftly put it - 'amazing feats.' They appeared at first to be human, but as they grew they showed that they'd inherited powers from their angelic fathers. Extrasensory perception, telepathy, telekinesis, even pyrokinesis ... the _girls_ were the ones who showed they had inherited what people considered 'magical' abilities. And yes, you are descended from them."

Laurel's brow furrowed, and she looked up at Gabriel. "Wait, are you telling me that stuff like Carrie and Firestarter are actually _true_?"

"More than true. _Biographical_. Just updated and modernized. But then again, it's easy to write stories about one's ancestors."

She looked aghast. "Stephen King is -"

"Descended from Nephilim, yes. Although they preferred to be called _The Children_. Made things much easier."

"And the kids from IT?"

"More _Children_."

"Doc Torrance?"

"The same. In fact, he was one of the more famous boysborn with psychic abilities."

"The Turtle? The Spider?"

"A dying Angel after the rebellion, and a Shayateen Jinn."

"Maximum Overdrive?"

"Utter rubbish. But still, it _was_ entertaining." He chuckled and held his hands out in a memeworthy pose, mockingly mouthing the word _ALIENS_.

"I hear ya. Hmm, well I'll be damned. But wait ... if there were so many of us, what happened to us all?"

Gabriel hung his head. "Humanity is what happened. Or rather, the lack of it. Jealousy. Rage. People who didn't like what one of The Children with ESP or visions of the future told them, and would spurn them and call them 'witches.' Add to that some telekinetics who haven't yet learned to harness their power, and let's face it, you're looking at a very dangerous situation. The humans ended up putting many of The Children to death. Sometimes for self-preservation, but more often than not for simple bigotry. It got so bad that God Himself intervened to save them. If He hadn't, they'd have been completely wiped out."

" _Intervened_? What do you mean by that?"

"Well, the 'official position' of Jewish scholars, as well as the Church today, is that the Nephilim were wiped out during the Great Flood. Yet you still find verses, written centuries later, talking about people who at the time exhibited the same physical or paranormal characteristics of _The Children_. It's kind of hard to go around wiping out magical angel babies, if you think they're all dead already. _The Children_ ended up migrating away from Mesopotamia, settling down in different places all over the world. That's why you find so many similar tales about magical people and giants among so many different civilizations. Only a chosen few were trusted with the truth - that _The Children_ were real, and alive and well, although in much fewer numbers."

"Was Goliath was one of _The Children_?"

"No. Pituitary problem. The unfortunate victim of human growth hormones, much like the 'giants' you hear about today. They grow incredibly tall, large and imposing. Men like Goliath were perfect for waging psychological warfare against your enemies, especially when they're seven feet tall and the average man stood about five. That's what the Philistines used him for, primarily. Psyching out their foes. You notice that the story only says he went out and _stood_ , but never that he went out and _fought_ anybody. Kind of strange behavior for someone described as a 'champion,' eh? That's because his reputation was entirely made up of military propaganda. Like today's 'giants,' Goliath didn't move very quickly. Most people thought it was because he had a great deal of confidence and didn't feel the _need_ to move quickly, but in reality, he actually _couldn't_. His muscles weren't prepared to move a man of his size. Plus, between his condition and the lack of a calcium-rich diet, Goliath's bones were extremely brittle. That's why David's stone went in so easily."

"Poor guy," Laurel said.

"Mmm-hmm," Gabriel agreed.

"So what would you call the Inquisition, or the Witch Hysteria, when so many people lost their lives? Were those people some of _The Children_ as well, or just innocent victims whose lands and wealth were ripe for the picking?"

Gabriel gnashed his teeth as he answered. "Both. But in the case of _The Children_ , let's just say the concept of 'Loose Lips Sink Ships' wasn't one that originated in World War II. Nowadays, we entrust even fewer with the truth."

It was Laurel's turn to put her hand on his. "I suppose we all have our Judases." She wrinkled her nose. "Or hey ... would it be Judi _ae_?"


End file.
